by Jo Nesbo
He gave a start. What was that? It seemed to come from the far end of the corridor. He listened intently. It was quiet now. But there had been a noise, and apart from the regular squawks from the heart monitor there shouldn’t be any sounds here.
Anton got to his feet silently, loosened the strap over the butt of his gun and took out the weapon. Removed the safety catch. You keep a damn good eye on him, Anton.
He waited, but no one came. Then he began to walk slowly down the corridor. He shook all the doors on the way, but they were locked, as they were supposed to be. He rounded the corner and saw the next corridor stretch out before him. Illuminated the whole way down. And there was no one there. He stopped again and listened. Nothing. Perhaps he hadn’t heard anything after all. He put the gun back in its holster.
Hadn’t heard anything? Oh yes, he had. Something had created waves, which had met the sensitive membrane in his ear, made it react, only a little but enough for the nerves to receive it and transmit the signal to the brain. It was as good as a fact. But it could have been one of a thousand things that had caused it. A mouse or a rat. A bulb exploding with a bang. The temperature falling at night and making the woodwork in the building contract. A bird flying into a window.
It was only now — as he was calming down — that Anton noticed how high his pulse had been. He should start training again. Get into shape. Recover the body that was the real him.
He was about to go back when he thought now that he was here he might as well have a cup of coffee. He went over to the red espresso machine and picked up the solitary green capsule with a shiny lid bearing the name of Fortissio Lungo. And it struck him the noise could have been someone sneaking in and pinching their coffee. Hadn’t there been plenty of capsules yesterday? He put the capsule in the machine, but suddenly noticed it had been perforated. Used, in other words. No, it can’t have been, then the lid would have a kind of chess pattern after it had been squeezed. He switched on the machine. The humming started, and then he realised that for the next twenty seconds it would drown out any other noises. He stepped back two paces so that he wasn’t in the middle of it.
When the cup was full he examined the coffee. Black, nice consistency; the capsule hadn’t been used before.
As the last drop dripped into his cup he thought he heard it again. A noise. The same noise. But this time from the other side, towards the patient’s room. Had he missed something on the way? Anton switched the cup to his left hand and took out his gun again. Walked back, taking long, even steps. Trying to balance the cup without looking at it, feeling the scalding hot coffee burning his hand. Rounded the corner. No one. He breathed out. Continued towards his chair. Was about to sit down. Then he froze. Went back to patient’s room, opened the door.
It was impossible to see him; the duvet was covering him.
But the heart machine’s sonar signal was as steady as ever, and he could see the line running from left to right on the green screen and jumping whenever there was a beep.
He was about to close the door.
But something made him change his mind.
He went in, left the door open and rounded the bed.
Looked down at the patient.
It was him.
He frowned. Leaned in close to his mouth. Was he breathing?
Yes, there it was. The movement in the air and the nauseous, sweet smell which perhaps emanated from the medication.
Anton Mittet went back out. Closing the door behind him. Looked at his watch. Drank the coffee. Looked at his watch again. Noticed that he was counting the minutes. That he wanted this shift to be over soon.
‘How nice that he agreed to talk to me,’ Katrine said.
‘Agreed?’ the warder said. ‘Most of the men in this unit would give their right hand to spend a few minutes on their own with a woman. Rico Herrem is a potential rapist. Are you sure you don’t want someone in there with you?’
‘I know how to take care of myself.’
‘The dentist said that as well. But, OK, at least you’re wearing trousers.’
‘Trousers?’
‘She was wearing a skirt and nylon stockings. Sat Valentin down in the dentist’s chair without having an officer present. You can imagine. .’
Katrine tried to imagine.
‘She paid the price for dressing like. . OK, here we are!’ He unlocked the door to the cell and opened it. ‘I’m right outside. Just shout if you need anything.’
‘Thank you,’ Katrine said, and went in.
The man with the red scalp was sitting at the desk and swivelled round on the chair.
‘Welcome to my humble abode.’
‘Thank you,’ Katrine said.
‘Take this.’ Rico Herrem got up, carried the chair over to her, walked back and sat on the neatly made bed. Good distance. She sat down and felt his body warmth on the chair. He moved further back on the bed as Katrine pulled the chair closer, and she wondered if he was one of those men who was actually afraid of women. And that was why he didn’t rape them, he watched them. Exposed himself to them. Rang them and said all the things he would like to do with them, but which of course he never dared to do. Rico Herrem’s record was more unsavoury than actually frightening.
‘You shouted to me that Valentin wasn’t dead,’ she said, leaning forward. He shrank back even further. The body language was defensive, but the smile was the same: insolent, hate-filled. Obscene. ‘What did you mean by that?’
‘What do you think, Katrine?’ Nasal voice. ‘That he’s alive, I reckon.’
‘Valentin Gjertsen was found dead in prison, right here.’
‘That’s what everyone thinks. Did the guy outside tell you what he did to the dentist?’
‘Something about a skirt and nylons. Apparently that ignites your imagination.’
‘It ignites Valentin’s imagination. And I mean that literally. She used to be here two days a week. Lots of people complained about their teeth at that time. Valentin used one of her drills to force her to take off her nylon stockings and put them over her head. Then he fucked her in the dentist’s chair. But as he said afterwards: “She just lay there like a slaughtered animal.” She must have been given bad advice about what to do if something happened. Then Valentin took out his lighter and, yes, he set fire to the stockings. Have you seen how nylon melts when it burns? That got her going, I can tell you. Screaming and thrashing around, right? The stench of face fried in nylon was in the walls for weeks afterwards. I don’t know what happened to her, but I would guess she doesn’t have to be frightened of being raped again.’
Katrine looked at him. Whipping-dog face, she thought. Been given so many beatings that the grin had become an automatic defence.
‘If Valentin’s not dead, where is he then?’ she asked.
The grin grew wider. He pulled the duvet over his knees.
‘Please tell me if I’m wasting my time here, Rico,’ Katrine sighed. ‘I’ve spent so much time at mental health institutions that crazy people bore me. All right?’
‘You don’t think I’m going to give you this information for nothing, do you, Officer?’
‘My rank is Special Detective. What’s the price? Reduced sentence?’
‘I’m getting out next week. I want fifty thousand kroner.’
Katrine burst into loud, hearty laughter. As hearty as she could make it. And saw the fury stealing into his eyes.
‘I can’t do anything for you then,’ she said, getting up.
‘Thirty thousand,’ he said. ‘I’m skint and when I get out I’ll need a plane ticket to take me a long way away.’
Katrine shook her head. ‘We pay informers only when they have info that casts a whole new light on a case. A big case.’
‘And what if this is one?’
‘Then I would have to talk to my boss about it. But I thought you had something you wanted to tell me. I’m not here to negotiate on something I don’t have.’ She walked to the door and raised her hand to knock.
�
��Wait,’ Red Scalp said. His voice was thin. He had drawn the duvet up to his chin. ‘I can tell you something. .’
‘I’ve got nothing for you, I said.’ Katrine knocked on the door.
‘Do you know what this is?’ He held up a copper-coloured instrument that made Katrine’s heart skip a beat. For a nanosecond she had thought it was a gun, but then saw that it was an improvised tattoo machine with a nail sticking out of the end.
‘I’m the tattooist here in this joint,’ he said. ‘A bloody good one too. Do you know how they identified the body they found here as Valentin’s?’
Katrine stared at him. At the small, hate-filled eyes. The thin, wet lips. The red skin glowing under the thinning hair. The tattoo. The demon face.
‘I still haven’t got anything for you, Rico.’
‘You could. .’ He pulled a face.
‘Yes?’
‘If you could unbutton your blouse so that I could see. .’
Katrine looked down in disbelief. ‘You mean. . these?’
As she placed her hands under her breasts she could almost feel the heat radiating out from the man in the bed.
She heard the key rattling in the lock outside.
‘Officer,’ she said loudly without relinquishing Rico Herrem’s gaze, ‘give us a couple more minutes, please.’
She heard the rattling stop, heard him say something and then steps fading into the distance.
The Adam’s apple in front of her looked like a little alien climbing up and down under the skin, trying to get out.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘Not until. .’
‘Here’s the deal. The blouse stays buttoned. But I’ll squeeze one nipple so that you can see the outline. If what you tell me is good. .’
‘It is!’
‘If you move the deal’s off, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Right. Let me hear.’
‘I tattooed the demon face on his chest.’
‘Here? In the prison?’
He pulled a sheet of paper out from under the duvet.
Katrine moved towards him.
‘Stop!’
She stopped. Looked at him. Raised her right hand. Groped for the nipple under the thin fabric of her bra. Caught it between forefinger and thumb. Squeezed. Didn’t try to ignore the pain, welcomed it. Stood with her back arched. Knowing that blood was streaming to the nipple, that it was stiffening. Let him see. Heard his breathing accelerate.
He passed her the sheet of paper, and she stepped forward and snatched it. Sat down on the chair.
It was a drawing. She recognised it from the prison warder’s description. Demon face. Drawn out to the sides as if it had hooks attached to the cheeks and forehead. Screaming with pain, screaming to get free.
‘I thought it was a tattoo he’d had for many years before he died,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t say that exactly.’
‘What do you mean?’ Katrine studied the lines of the drawing.
‘As he got it after he died, I mean.’
She looked up. Saw his eyes still riveted on her blouse. ‘Did you tattoo Valentin after he died? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Are you deaf, Katrine? Valentin isn’t dead.’
‘But. . who. .?’
‘Two buttons.’
‘What?’
‘Undo two buttons.’
She undid three. Pulled her blouse to the side. Let him see her bra with the outline of the still stiff nipple.
‘Judas.’ His voice was a whisper now, gruff. ‘I tattooed Judas. Valentin had him in his suitcase for three days. Locked in the suitcase, can you imagine!’
‘Judas Johansen?’
‘Everyone thought he’d escaped, but Valentin had killed him and hidden him in the suitcase. No one searches for a man in a suitcase, eh? Valentin had given him such a beating that even I wondered if it really could be Judas. Mincemeat. Could have been anyone. The only thing that was in one piece was the chest where I was supposed to do the tattoo.’
‘Judas Johansen. That was the body they found.’
‘Now I’ve told you, and I’m a dead man too.’
‘But why did he kill Judas?’
‘Valentin was a hated man inside. Because he’d molested girls under ten, of course. Then there was the dentist business. Many people here liked her. The guards did as well. It was just a question of time before he had an accident. An overdose. Made it look like suicide. So he did something about it.’
‘He could have just escaped?’
‘They would have found him. He had to make it seem as if he was dead.’
‘And his pal Judas was. .’
‘Useful. Valentin isn’t like the rest of us, Katrine.’
Katrine ignored his inclusive ‘us’. ‘Why did you want to tell me this? You were an accessory.’
‘I only tattooed a dead man. Besides, you have to catch Valentin.’
‘Why?’
Red Scalp closed his eyes. ‘I’ve been dreaming so much recently, Katrine. He’s coming. Coming back to join the living. But, first of all, he has to get rid of the past. Everyone in his way. Everyone who knows. And I’m one of them. I’m being released next week. You have to catch him. .’
‘. . before he catches you,’ Katrine completed, staring without seeing at the man in front of her. For it was as if it was being played out, the scene Rico had set, where he tattooed the three-day-old body. And it was so unsettling that she was unaware of anything; she neither heard nor saw. Not until she felt a tiny droplet on her neck. Heard his low rattle and looked down. And jumped up from the chair. Stumbled towards the door, her nausea rising.
Anton Mittet woke up.
His heart was pounding wildly, and he was gulping down air.
Blinked for one confused moment before managing to focus.
Looked into the white wall in front of him. He was still sitting on the chair with his head lolling against the wall behind him. He had fallen asleep. Slept on the job.
It had never happened before. He lifted his left hand. It felt as if it weighed twenty kilos. And why was his heart beating as though he had run a half-marathon?
He looked at his watch. A quarter past eleven. He had been asleep for more than an hour! How could it have happened? He felt his heart gradually slowing down. It must have been all the stress over the past few weeks. The shifts, the daily rhythm out of sync. Laura and Mona.
What had woken him? Another noise?
He listened.
Nothing, just a quivering silence. And this vague dreamlike memory that the brain had registered something it found unsettling. It was like when he slept in their house in Drammen down by the river. He knew snarling boat engines raced past outside their open window, but his brain didn’t register anything. A tiny creak of the bedroom door, on the other hand, and he jumped up. Laura claimed this was something he had started doing after the Drammen case, when they had found the young man, René Kalsnes, by the river.
He closed his eyes. Opened them wide again. Jesus, he had fallen asleep again! He got up. Felt so dizzy he had to sit down. Blinked. One hell of a mist, coating his senses.
He looked down at the empty coffee cup beside the chair. He would have to go and make himself a double espresso. Oh no, shit, it had run out of capsules. He would have to ring Mona and ask her to bring a cup for him; it wasn’t long before her next visit. He picked up the phone. Her name was under GAMLEM CONTACT RIKSHOSPITAL. Which was no more than a safety precaution in case Laura checked the call log on his mobile phone and saw the frequent calls to this number. Of course he deleted the texts as he went. Anton Mittet was going to call when his brain identified it.
The wrong sound. The creak of the bedroom door.
It was the silence.
It was the sound that wasn’t there that was wrong.
The sonar beep. The heart monitor.
Anton struggled to his feet. Staggered to the door, burst in. Tried to blink away the fuzziness. Stared at the machine�
��s green shimmering screen. At the dead, flat line extending across it.
He ran to the bed. Looked down at the pallid face lying there.
He heard the sound of running footsteps approaching in the corridor. An alarm must have gone off in the duty office when the machine stopped registering heartbeats. Anton instinctively placed a hand on the man’s forehead. Still warm. However, Anton had seen enough bodies to leave no room for doubt. The patient was dead.
PART THREE
11
The funeral of the patient was a brief, efficient affair with an extremely meagre turnout. The priest didn’t even try to suggest the man in the coffin was much-loved, had lived an exemplary life or was eligible to enter paradise. He therefore just went straight to Jesus, who, he maintained, had let all sinners off the hook.
There weren’t even enough volunteers to carry the coffin, so it had to be left standing in front of the altar while the congregation walked out into the snow outside Vestre Aker Church. The majority of the assembled mourners were police officers — four to be precise — who got into the same car and drove to Kafé Justisen, which had just opened and where a psychologist was waiting for them. They stamped the snow off their boots, ordered a beer and four bottles of water, which was no cleaner or tastier than the water that came out of Oslo’s taps. They skåled, cursed the dead man, as was the custom, and drank.
‘His death was premature,’ said the head of Crime Squad, Gunnar Hagen.
‘Only a little premature,’ said the head of Krimteknisk, Beate Lønn.
‘May he burn long and hot,’ said the red-haired forensics officer in the suede jacket with a fringe, Bjørn Holm.
‘As a psychologist I hereby diagnose you all as out of touch with your emotions,’ said Ståle Aune, raising his glass of beer.
